


Moronic Symphonies, Jewel Flowers & Clarkia breweri

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Witchering Pays but Botany Doesn't [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt and his baths, M/M, Sex Work, Slice of Life, the Passiflora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: The Passiflora is the oldest continually run brothel in Novigrad. It has survived fires, wars, and invasions, The Pyres, three outbreaks of the Catrionna plague, and two of Koviri influenza, an earthquake, an Eternal Flame church reformation that tried to shut down all "houses of sin", an incident with a shaelmaar, two hauntings, riots, and an unfortunate experiment in the 1970s with shag carpeting and avocado green wallpaper. It's an icon, a fundamental piece of Novigrad history, a historic landmark and heritage site. And it's still the best damn brothel in Novigrad.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witchering Pays but Botany Doesn't [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666258
Comments: 66
Kudos: 384





	Moronic Symphonies, Jewel Flowers & Clarkia breweri

**Author's Note:**

> This continues to be a ficlet series where Geralt is still a Witcher (with a grumpy YouTube channel about plants), Jaskier still has a lute, and Geralt still plays Gwent at the Passiflora. Crack treated seriously, mostly.

In 1272, four men gathered in an upstairs suite of the Passiflora, Novigrad’s premiere brothel, and plotted the assassination of King Radovid. 

In 1625, the Passiflora nearly burned to the ground in The Great Fire, all but parts of the stone exterior walls, a fireplace, and some of the larger beams destroyed. An unknown person lent the madame 40,000 Crowns to rebuild. The Madame commissioned a sculpture in the benefactor’s honor after the house reopened: a sleeping wolf, rangy and lean, carved out of white marble and placed amongst the flower beds in the brothel's courtyard. 

Between 1803 and 1813, the Passiflora converted itself to a hospital and triage clinic, and then again in 1942 during the Novigrad bombings.

In the 1960s, its back rooms were used for meetings, its basement to organize marches. In 1968, the Temple Guard shot through its boarded up windows and filled it with gas, but the Madame refused to give up those sheltering in its walls.

It’s said that the Passiflora is where Drogodar wrote _Lioness_ , where Jimi Hendrix first dreamed the opening riffs of _Red House_. Where a Porsche 550 Spyder was lost and won in a high stakes game of Gwent. 

The Passiflora is the oldest continually run brothel in Novigrad. It has survived fires, wars, and invasions, The Pyres, three outbreaks of the Catrionna plague, and two of Koviri influenza, an earthquake, an Eternal Flame church reformation that tried to shut down all "houses of sin", an incident with a shaelmaar, two hauntings, riots, and an unfortunate experiment in the 1970s with shag carpeting and avocado green wallpaper. It's an icon, a fundamental piece of Novigrad history, a historic landmark and heritage site. And it's still the best damn brothel in Novigrad. 

Geralt dumps his backpack on the floor of his room, takes his hat off, and pushes a hand through his sweaty hair. Chryssy sniffs, delicately, and says, “I’ll get your bath started, then.” 

“Thanks,” Geralt answers, and starts unlacing his hiking boots. 

He peels his sweaty socks off and tosses them across the room into the hamper, and pulls his shirt over his head while the sounds of water rushing into the porcelain tub fill the room. 

“Rosemary and mint or jasmine and ylang ylang?” Chryssy calls from the attached bathroom. 

Geralt grunts and wanders in after her. The cold of the tile feels good on his bare feet after the heat of the AC-less drive. She holds the two glass jars of salts out to him and he sniffs. Jasmine can sometimes be overwhelming, but then again so can rosemary. Both are relatively subtle here. He taps the jasmine one. “That one, please.” He pushes his jeans down, thumbs hooking into his boxers and pulling them down with them, then steps into the shower to rinse off. He’s filthy enough that he’d just muddy the water if he got in the bath now. 

By the time he gets out of the shower, the bath’s almost full. He steps directly from one into the other -- it’s almost, but not quite too hot, even for a Witcher. He sinks down to his eyeballs and stretches his legs out. 

Above him, he hears Chryss snort. “Want me to wash your hair?”

“I’ll manage.” He reaches out, touches her wrist. “Thanks.”

She pats the top of his head and he hears the door shut behind her. 

Geralt opens his eyes, stares at the blackened 1000-year-old beams in the ceiling, the plaster walls, the 18th century paned glass in the little window, and the 21st century lights of the city outside it as night falls in Novigrad. He closes his eyes again and listens to the sound of the Passiflora as it begins to wake up with the night. The laughter in the main salons, the rise and fall of voices, the music from the speakers downstairs, the rhythmic sounds of beds creaking and flesh moving against flesh, just faintly in the background, the sounds of flirtatious voices from the gardens surrounding the house, same as they ever were, same as any century. Now with modern plumbing. Amazing.

He soaks until his fingers are pruned and the water’s gone cold. 

When he finally drags himself out of the bath, Chryssy’s left a robe: black and fluffy flannel. He pulls it on, brushes his teeth, wanders back into his room, pulls his phone charger out of his pack, plugs his phone in, and lies down. 

It’s not his room. Not really. But it’s the same room he’s always in. Far to the back -- a garret, really, although redone and refurbished -- far enough from the main salons and the working rooms that the noise isn’t too much. With a little balcony over the gardens, and its own private bath (and a bathtub big enough for a witcher). It’s not that they don’t use it when he’s not here. Sometimes the mattress smells of Eskel or Lambert. Sometimes it smells faintly of some of the employees. Like someone came in and laid on top of the mattress and read or napped for an hour or so. Sometimes there’s the lingering scent of tea or coffee and women’s perfume, like the whispered memory of quiet moments, young women sharing coffee and a quiet chat on the sun-lit chairs by the balcony door. But the mattress never smells of other people’s sex. It never smells of customers. It always smells like a space set aside. 

He doesn’t exactly mean to, but he falls asleep. 

He wakes up hungry and disoriented an hour or so later. He fishes clean jeans and a t-shirt out of his pack, shoves his phone in his back pocket, and goes downstairs. 

Madame Iris has just played her third spy, and Geralt is settling in for what is sure to be a long game when Stella pulls her away to talk to a client about something. Geralt stretches until his back pops and looks out over the 2nd floor balcony rails to the courtyard below. There’s a delicate purple-pink flower blooming in pots along the railing. Geralt takes his phone out and takes a picture of them, backlit by the city, and then spends 5 minutes playing with filters until he finally decides it doesn’t need one and just posts it with the caption _faerie fans, thriving far from home -- normally they prefer it a little hotter and dryer_. He has… somehow… 1,537 followers so far. 

He responds back to a message from Ciri, and is just sending Eskel a picture of the nesting structures in the griffin re-introduction habitat north of Yantra, when he gets a notification from Instagram. 

A DM from JaskierOfficial that says _so ignoring for a second why or how I recognize that particular balcony railing, but if you’re in Novigrad *right now* you should come to the Chameleon. We’re doing a show tonight. Sold out, but tell Jan at the door that you're the botany guy and he’ll let you in_

Geralt's staring at the words, wondering if he should respond or not when Jaskier starts typing again. _Or not. If that’d be weird? Or uh, considering your location, you might be...otherwise engaged I suppose?_

 _Won’t the show have already started_ , he types back before he can stop himself.

_the opening acts yeah but we go on stage in 20_

Jan is a dark-haired dwarf with three eyebrow piercings who really does just… let him in. It’s packed, but Geralt pushes his way to the bar and orders a Redanian style IPA. Then he puts his ear protection on because concerts are not made for Witcher ears, and finds a spot as far from the speakers as possible with his back to the wall and waits for the last act of the night. 

Jaskier sings and flirts and makes love to the crowd. He pours himself out through his throat and Geralt can’t stop watching, even through some of the stupider songs. The third song to the last he switches to an actual lute and plays a song, a melody whose first three stanzas Geralt hasn’t heard since the 17th century. Geralt drains his beer, closes his eyes, and lets the music dig its claws in. Then he goes and orders another beer. 

The crowd thins out after the show. Geralt nurses his drink at the bar and watches the last people drift toward the exits. 

“Loving the way you’re just sitting in the corner and brooding,” Geralt hears a voice behind him. “Botany guy, right? Jan said you were --” Geralt turns and looks at him. Bright blue eyes lock onto his. “Oh _shit_ ,” Jaskier says, “oh, shit, you’re a Witcher.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at superstitionhockey on tumblr. Thanks to dangercupcake for fixing my punctuation. Don't post to other sites.  
> Titles and plants are references to the YouTube channel "Crime Pays But Botany Doesn't" aka my go-to I'm-too-anxious-to-function-stress-watch show.


End file.
